


Toy Soldier

by silverandcoldone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverandcoldone/pseuds/silverandcoldone
Summary: When you cast such a curse, it traps you in a cage made of crooked mirrors and warps your reality. When your motivation has the slightest trace of hypocrisy, it will become a force of destruction that will not vanish until you change. What happens if it is too late to repent? Does death grant second chances after life finishes to play with its toy soldiers?A backfired curse changes the life of Draco Malfoy and distorts the reality of Hermione Granger.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 9
Collections: Strictly Dramione Valentine’s Day Fic Exchange Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetmusings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmusings/gifts).

> This piece is a submission to Valentines Exchange Fest 2020, hosted by Strictly Dramione, and I must thank the hosts for an incredible amount of patience with my rookie ass.
> 
> My prompt included words: love, despair, demise and horror. 
> 
> Thank you to @sweetmusings for this dope guideline that took a fic that would probably end up unfinished in my Google Doc into such a weird direction. I'd also like to thank Monster Energy for sponsoring this fic (not really tho, but I drank two cans while writing overnight, then had a mental breakdown and made a couple other participants laugh in chat, so that's good karma points)
> 
> I really can't seem to figure out how to navigate AO3, but give me like... a year and I will make the formatting kinder on the eyes. In the meantime enjoy the Cover Art I made in pixlr, because I am cheap. It's my favourite thing about the fic. If you want to hear a weird french song that is way too long, make sure to check out the Spotify playlist I made for "Toy Soldier" (link in Chapter 1, under the pic). Martika's Toy Soldiers is a song I randomly remembered hearing on MTV back when the "m" was still justified. It became a major inspiration for the fanfic, it is a powerful song and though commonly interpreted as a song about addiction, it works as a theme song when you do what I did to the beloved characters from the Harry Potter franchise and imagine it is fate herself singing the song.

* * *

[>>>Spotify Playlist<<<](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11B8J1x7n1FX2h7wMXLLCm?si=s7dJwIfRRuydQtUXIqY6Xg)

* * *

_“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”_   
_― Plato_

* * *

The moment I look at his pale skin is the moment I realize the world as I know it has perished. His eyelids are paper-thin, so thin you can actually see every crack marked by the burgundy vessels. The boy who lived is gone. I kneel to wipe the coagulated blood of his lips. Out of respect or maybe out of hope that I could feel his breath warm against my fingers. I don’t. I look up at Ronald, I shake my head, tears begin to fall down his cheeks as he stares in disbelief. A stream of light flies between us and crashes against a pillar just behind. The structure breaks and the stone begins to fall. It goes down fast, too fast for a proper goodbye. Before it tumbles down I look at Ronald and, for a split second, our gazes lock. This is our goodbye. We are separated by rubble. I break down and scream as I succumb to Harry’s body. Someone pulls me away. Amongst the falling debris, all I can see is her blonde hair. “We need to go, you need to hide”, she says, so calm and warm that for a moment I think she might be my mother. As she drags me out of the battlefield, I do not protest. I am a traitor.

* * *

They set up a refugee camp for us in Massachusetts weeks before all the horror broke loose. They knew he was coming more powerful than we could have predicted. They scanned the whole state for this village. This place, a relic of the past, has always served as a refuge. When the Puritan witch hunts began, the remaining witches put concealment charms around these grounds, charms so powerful that even casting an Unforgivable Curse would not escape the invisible barriers. No witch or wizard could break it. No witch or wizard could see through them. They called it Roanoke, in memoriam of the Lost Colony. We should be safe here, undetectable to the Dark Lord.

* * *

The officials sent to protect the camp are strange, almost dementor-like in their demeanours. Though if you listen closely you can hear them, every other night, laughing and all light-hearted as they play poker at nights. Every morning, on my way to the meetings that teach us the new normal, I pass by this man. Grey eyes, chocolate hair, wide shoulders. L.C. Amberson, the tag on his chest says. Soon I learn that the proper way to address him is Warlock Amberson. He is a highly trained officer of the magical military but looks no older than 20. As more and more refugees fill up the camp, the Warlocks divide us into groups. Amberson becomes my supervisor and soon my friend. He allows me to construct fake identities for the refugees that leave the camp and I enjoy playing God for him. He calls me to his room as the date of my discharge is set.  
  
"They will put concealments on the places you live at and work at", he says.  
  
"They will alter the memories of the community and workplace of your choice", he assures me.  
  
I sign a document that allows the Warlocks to terminate me without a trial if I expose the country to a Death Eaters attack. He asks if there is anything else I need to know and I say no. I hand him a file with one hundred fake lives I had planned out for our people. Later we meet to smoke cigarettes in the utility closet, as was our tradition by that point. I tell him about the life I had arranged for myself.  
  
"Or we could go to Canada, you know?”, Amberson tells me as he exhales.  
  
“Just you and me”, he finishes.  
  
I decline politely and he smiles wryly. He then hands me the products I asked him to buy for me. A hair dye, a razor, a box of tampons.

* * *

I spot the blonde bastard in the camp three days before my departure. He and Pansy Parkinson are seated by the table amongst unfamiliar faces. He isn't smiling, but the mere sight of him in the camp is enough to make my blood boil. There is no law of physics and no cosmic right that could convince me this is what justice looks like. A Death Eater, the sole reason for the demise of The Chosen One, now sits amongst his friends, safe and sound where the war cannot reach him. As if he was forgiven, or worse, innocent. Forgiveness is not something he deserves, it is not what he gets. I leave my plate full this evening and walk out without taking a single bite. On my way out, I pull Amberson into our utility closet and we fuck desperately. I ask him to leave before I do and he obliges. Maybe he likes it clandestine, maybe it's the decisive tone of my voice that twists his will, or maybe it isn't professional of him to fuck a refugee and professional is what he always strives to be. Before I leave, I steal a candle and some rubbing alcohol from the closet for a despicable deed I have just decided upon. When I meet Pansy in the bathroom the next morning, she tells me that she is glad to see me safe. I cannot tell her the same.  
  
“Go back to your little Death Eater while you still can”, I tell her. My voice deflects the from the tiled walls. It sounds wicked and she picks it up.  
  
“He just wants peace!" she defends the cockroach.  
  
I ask her why start a war if all you want is peace and she doesn't know the answer. 

* * *

I think back to what my mother once told me when we spoke about me being a witch, Harry being The Chosen One and Draco being a Malfoy.  
  
"Fate is a cruel, but efficient tutor", she said.  
  
"To be at peace is a matter of its whim, nothing more".  
  
Pansy's voice cries inside my head, somewhere beneath the warm voice of my mother, asking to let him have his peace. I shuffle a Tarot deck in my hands thinking that I have deciphered fate. It is cruel. But it is also transparent, every so often letting us peek into what the future holds. Sometimes it forgets about the efficiency that my mother had sworn upon. Sometimes it needs an agent, a sort of catalyst that fastens up the inevitable process. Sometimes it needs to be ignored in the name of justice.

* * *

_Tinker, Tailor,  
S__oldier, Sailor,_  
_Rich Man, Poor Man,_  
_Beggar Man, Thief  
..._  
Hanged Man, Chariot,  
Reversed Emperor,  
Tower, Moon.  
An Upright Fool.

* * *

I spent the night and the following days preparing his rendezvous with fate. When the time comes, I expect to feel nervous, I expect to feel remorse, I expect to feel... something. Instead, how I feel about the deed is close to washing your teeth in the morning.   
  
Monday evening I skip dinner. I barricade my room and light the candle I stole. I seat in the middle of the room, inside a sigil I had drawn on the floor. In my left hand, I have his hair. I collected it from Pansy’s clothes while she was in the shower. In my right hand, I hold the scales. I placed the alcohol in both pans, I throw his hair into one of them and light both the pans on fire. I focus my energy on the intention.  
  
_May you not know peace for 50 lunar cycles at least. _

_May the things you departed make you twice as haunted. _

_May your guilty mind stay stone until you atone. _

_Draco Malfoy._

* * *

By Friday my hair is cut short and dyed darker. Everything I need to get to where I need to be is set up. Amberson walks me to the gates. He assures me that whenever I need him, he will be there. He hands me a note - his cellphone number. It is the most normal thing that had happened to me in ages. Which is exactly why it makes it so surreal. I am packed and waiting at the gates, ready to leave for New Orleans when I hear it. The wail he let out is the sound of despair. I am uncertain whether it was my deed that caused it, but the corners of my mouths lift slightly. His misery is my pleasure, regardless of the source. A minute or so later, she is running in our direction, her finger pointed at me.  
  
“You! You did that to him!”, she screams.  
  
He walks behind her, much slower, resigned.

“He’s going to fucking muggle military, do you understand that?”, she yells in my face.

When she gets dangerously close, Amberson steps between us. Pansy keeps throwing profanity my way, but I don't care. I stare directly at him. Now my smile is triumphant. Amberson tells me to just go as he pulls her away and so I do. I slam the gate behind me. I take a passenger's seat by the Warlock who is taking me to my new life. He turns on the radio. It plays country music and he seems to enjoy it, letting a little hum escape his lips. By the 300th mile, I fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

My apartment is in the rundown part of the city. It's way too big for one person, with tall discoloured walls, large windows hidden behind dull curtains and passages that have been filled in with bricks to change the layout of the apartment. When the nosy older lady who lives two doors to the left tells me that the place is rumoured to be haunted, I feel safer - traces of magic in haunted houses are less carefully monitored by the Ministry.  
  
“If you ever feel scared, my dear, come sleep at my place. I haven’t had a sleepover in ages”, she laughs through her loneliness.  
  
I smile back at her, make an excuse of being in a hurry and leave. If only she knew that I haven't slept in weeks.

First, I blamed it on the change in living conditions, it was nice to hope that in a few days I will get used to it and sleep like a baby. When the sixth night fell upon the city and I was still wide awake, I started to blame it on the war. I don't think that I will ever hear from Ron again. I have witnessed my best friend dying. Maybe I should have started seeing a therapist. Instead, I brewed more tea and I read more books. The third week started with no sign of sleep on the horizon. I started to blame my insomnia on the neighbours' dog who barks relentlessly each night. As sleep is scarce, the days become weeks, and weeks become months. The wheel of time spins like crazy in my new sleepless normal. I form new habits, I make new friends, work becomes my solace and I drown myself in it, hoping it would distract me from my gloomy feelings. Every so often I feel alive when Amberson comes over for a day or two and we have sex for hours. Afterwards, I usually break down and cry, and he tells me everything he found out about the war, knowing that knowledge is the only thing that calms me. The new normal has been new for 3 years and I should start to call it just normal, but I cannot bring myself to do it. As we lay naked in my bed, he tells me that they found The Real Chosen One. I listen carefully as he tells me that there was another child that could fulfil the prophecy. I tell him to cut it. Even though this brings hope to the fight, I hate to hear it. Harry died for nothing when he didn't even have to fight. After a heavy moment of silence, Amberson speaks again.  
  
“The blonde boy, Death Eaters son, was just deployed to Afghanistan. Thought you would want to know”.  
  
I didn’t, I pretend I am asleep. He is confused for a moment but finally closes his eyes too. In the morning he is gone. When he calls me next week, I tell him that I need a break. He understands. I don’t hear from him for a while.

* * *

When I was little I used to love playing with toy soldiers. Frozen and forever fighting, unable to escape their fate. Still little men in a war over silly little things. When they first started appearing near my door, I thought that the children had left them there and I’d scoop them towards the doors of my neighbours only to wake up in the morning and find the green men scattered around my house.

“It’s just the house”, I thought.

"The ghosts are finally doing what ghosts do, tease me", I calmed myself.

But soon the toy soldiers started growing. It began slowly, with barely visible growth spurts, but in a couple of days, the soldiers grew to human size. After that, the growth stopped and the figures would not move around. I pushed them into the corners of the rooms I had no use for, I locked the doors and forgot about their existence for some time.

Until the night the first one woke up. As I walked into my apartment, one of them, size of a statue, kneeling on one knee behind my sofa and pointing his rifle at the door, suddenly moved. He jumped to his feet as he noticed me and saluted. I walked past him as calmly as I could and he took his position again. Soon the others started waking up and I tried to stay out of their way, still desperately believing that it was the ghosts trying to scare me away. The soldiers made no mess, they did not eat nor did they drink. They just wandered around the rooms, polished their guns or cried in the cupboards. Some of them liked to watch TV, to listen to the news. I didn't mind it, at least they weren't bothering me.

They finally began trying to communicate. Their mouths would open, but the sound would come out muffled. I couldn't understand a word they said, or maybe I just didn't listen carefully enough. I had ignored it until the lunar cycle was over and the moon was nothing but a narrow sickle on the night sky. As the rundown town clock announced midnight, they all fell to the ground as if a bomb exploded and started shrinking back to their normal size. The muffled sounds stopped abruptly. It was finally silent.

"It's over, the ghosts gave up", I thought.

I collected the toys and threw them out my window, as far as I could. The next morning I opened my eyes to a single toy soldier on my bedside table. Soon they were all back and the cycle repeated itself. They grew, woke up, wandered around and became frustrated when they couldn't get through to me. The third time around the soldiers started to destroy my belongings. They'd cross out lines in my books, splinter the ceramics and draw pictures of mutilated bodies, guns or beautiful women whom I assumed they loved, or maybe simply desired. They began guarding me, but not as if I was their queen. They guarded me as if I was their prisoner. The green faces and their inaudible voices were stubborn, but so was I. By the fifth cycle the platoon had abandoned their ways of sabotaging my living space. Instead, they resorted to constantly attempting to say something. The muffled sounds were becoming louder and more aggressive. I still tried to ignore them.  
  
"Go away", I would tell them, "I can't understand you".

* * *

As I turn the key and the door clicks, a strange feeling surrounds me. I push open the door and turn the light on against my better judgement. They are standing in line, holding their guns to their chests, the furniture in the room is floating by the ceiling. I look at them dazzled. They seem to respectfully wait for me to put my groceries down and shut the door. I hang my purse and put the paper bag on the counter. The men, the statues, begin marching in place. I cannot explain how my heartbeat picks up the rhythm. Soon the stomping fills me with fear and I can't wrap my head around what is happening to me. Old, green man with a thick moustache and a scar that goes through it yells the first verse. The muffled voices reply with a chant, a wordless chant that means nothing to me. The soldiers stare at me, stern and desperate, and all I can do is shake my head. I cannot understand them. They carry on their weird battle call and I think they want to kill me tonight. The air I inhale tastes like dirt. The lights flicker only to light up even lighter, burning my skin as if I was in the desert sun. Cold sweat glistens on my pale palms. I look at their faces and feel my soul pierced with a plethora of feelings. Despair, devotion, desire. Hatred and hope. Fear and anger. Their song becomes louder and scarier, it begins to hurt my ears. Somewhere beneath their song, I hear the yells of Harry, Ron, my friends, my family. Then the hopeless wail that I recognize from Roanoke. I hear bombs and spells exploding. The chant reaches a hellish and paralysing pitch. The walls begin to tremble and cracks start to form. I feel powerless and trapped. I lay on the floor and cover my ears, but it doesn't help. I feel sharp pains every so often and I imagine this is how it feels when a bullet goes through your body. My wrist, my neck, my stomach. I relive memories that surely aren't mine. The exact hand of cards with which I won my first poker night at the base, the birth of my son, the shame as I lay naked on cold tiles in the common showers, my friends beat me, they had found out I loved another man. 

I finally decide to fight back. I manage to get up and run for the door. I grab my purse, squeeze myself out the door and push them shut. Like that, complete silence of night falls upon me. I take a deep breath and try to collect myself. I search through my purse for a phone, I must have left it in the apartment. I can't call Amberson. I get up on my legs, still shaky. I knock on the door of the old lady, but nobody answers. It's Mardi Gras night and perhaps she went to see the parade. A celebration is not what I need right now. But I cannot go back to my apartment and can't feel safe on my own. I begin walking towards the city centre.


	3. Chapter 3

As I cross the street I see him in my peripheral vision. Slender, tall and pale as ever. Dressed all in black. When I turn to look straight at him, he is already walking away from me. I pull his shoulder so that he turns and as I do, the black cape falls off. He falls to the ground, faceless and lifeless pile of ivory bones. All I can tell myself is that my mind is playing tricks on me. I can blame it on insomnia or the war or the neighbours' dog, but I don't. I keep walking towards the warm light of the Mardi Gras Parade and soon join the main stream of spectators. The parade platforms move steadily, giant and colourful, they manage to distract me for a while. I see Draco five more times on the verges of my sight, but the faceless spectres always fall apart the moment I look at them. Maybe he died in Afghanistan and for some reason tries to haunt me. Maybe the soldiers are all his doings. I would expect nothing less of him, always petty and vengeful. The crowd is being scoured by a man in an odd hat and dreadlocks. He nags the passerbys to spare a cigarette, a dollar, a sip of alcohol. I hesitate but decide to give a cigarette when he asks me politely. We dive outside the stream of people, onto the sidewalk and light the addictives. We watch the parade together through the fumes. The platforms keep rolling through the street, creatures and caricatures with dancers in their smiles, ears and noses. Finally, there comes a platform that draws my attention. I stare at the enormous white snake mesmerised. "Damballah", the man tells me pointing two fingers with a cigarette between them towards the platform, as if to taunt the creature. As he does, the head of the snake turns towards us, his tongue waving in the air as if hissing. "Damballah...Like the Lwa?" I ask the strange man. "The Lwa", the man repeats. "You shouldn't curse, snake says" he continues and I look at him weirdly, "You must give the man what you took from the boy, says Damballah". "Is he speaking parseltongue?", I take the risk and the man smirks. "He is", the man answers, "he predates human languages". I observe the man closer now. His eyes shine with a reddish glow. "Do you know them?", I ask him. "You figured it out", he laughs. I ask again if he knows them, "All the dead?" I clarify. "I do, but what you see isn't him, he's not there", he tells me and before I can put my thoughts together he is gone. A stub of his cigarette is still burning out on the ground as I dive back into the crowd trying to find Papa Legba. In vain.


	4. Chapter 4

As the morning light begins to shine through, I find myself walking slowly towards my apartment. Three blocks away is where I see him again, the real him. Blonde hair, wider shoulders, scars I cannot recognize. Waiting for a green light on the opposite side of the road. I stand there, on the edge of the sidewalk, staring at him like I did when I was leaving the camp. After a tram passes, he notices me too. He stands there in silence and stares right back. There is something odd about his eyes that makes me recall the feelings I felt when the soldiers sang to me. I think of the words I want to tell him. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at me and leaves. Before the light turns green and I can run after him, he disappears in a dark alley. So I walk home, open the door and carefully peek inside. The toy soldiers are laying on the ground, shrunken and silent. I sit on the floor and recollect the last years. The words come to me in a chaotic order.

You need to give the man what you took from the boy. You! You did that to him!  
May you not know peace for 50 lunar cycles at least. He isn't there. He was deployed to Afghanistan.  
May the things you departed make you twice as haunted. You shouldn't curse.   
May your guilty mind stay stone until you atone. Damballah. Draco Malfoy.

I find a silver pyxis, in a cabinet in one of the rooms I don't use. I collect the soldiers and throw them inside. I lock the pyxis with a spell and put it inside a can I fill with salt. This isn't going to fix the issue, but the soldiers won't hurt me before I can fix it. I find a book I took with me from the camp, about Voodoo practices. I find the chapter about curses backfires. I read until I fall asleep with my face in the book. I wake up hours later or maybe days. The antique clock stopped working, time stood still for me.


	5. Chapter 5

The streets of New Orleans become a maze and he is my only escape. When the full moon appears, I hear the sounds coming from the pyxis even though I hid it deep in a drawer of a heavy chest in the furthest room. The quiet moans, occasional yells and faded chants poison my peace of mind for days until the moon is a mere sickle. He hides from me in the twists and turns of this city. I await my repent patiently, but I wonder if I deserve it. The leaves have already turned yellow again when Amberson calls me about a plan to recoup Hogwarts. He doesn't even get a chance to ask me, but I am in. Three days later I leave my house. I take the pyxis with me in fear that the green platoon escapes and torments the city.

The same place that served as a refugee camp four years ago is now our training grounds.  
The evening I arrived they had already divided the names into tactical units. I was put in charge of unit #13. I request that they move Amberson out of my command for personal reasons and surprisingly, I do not have to explain myself further. Next time I see Amberson, he is angry at me. He tells me that he wanted to protect me and I lie telling him that he was removed from my unit without my knowledge. I wasn't going to let him die for me. The following night I attend the commanders meeting.  
In what was a dining hall sit twenty or so witches and wizards, two high ranking warlocks stand at the opposite end of the hall. I take a spot.

He walks in a little late, paces all quick and nervous, biting his lip as he walks up to the two warlocks. The room silences as the doors behind him shut loudly. One of the men starts speaking. He briefly introduces himself, his colleague and finally Draco. He speaks about Malfoy's experience in the muggle military and his history with Death Eaters. He conveniently leaves out the parts that don't paint him out as glorious. "Invaluable for our cause, this man", he assures everyone. Malfoy stands there for the whole time, his face unbothered. I take my time to scan him closely. There is a long, horizontal scar on his neck and three small indentions in the skin on his forehead. His eyes grew wider, his nose longer and his lips drier. His skin, still pale, has a more lively undertone and as he reaches for the outlines of Hogwarts, I notice that his hands, once sleek, perfectly polished and spotless now became rougher and calloused. The changes are subtle, but he feels different.

"We attack in ten days", he announces, as the warlocks walk around and hand the commanders their specific directions written down in plain black ink. "We will use muggle devices", he adds.


	6. Chapter 6

He avoids me for a day, but I catch him off-guard when I sneak into the shower room. He stands by a washbasin, sweating as he swallows a handful of pills. "Really? Are you trying to kill yourself, Draco Malfoy?", I ask. He scoffs as he fixes the towel around his waist. "No, Granger, but if death is your first thought when you see pills, I have no idea how your pharmacology persona could help the mankind", he turns to face me and leans against the basin, "Why are you here?". "You avoided me. And I have questions about the battle pla-", I stop as he rolls his eyes. "Here as in training. Wouldn't it be better to stay in your ugly apartment, drink some tea or a glass of wine and read a mediocre romance? You know, like put your comfortable life together?". I shake my head in disagreement and he smirks, "Should you have any questions please refer to Lieutenant Mercier. I have no business with your unit.", he tries to walk past me, but I stand still in the door frame. "I lied" I admit, "I just need to talk to you". "But I don't need to talk to you. Now fuck off before I lose my temper. The war experience may be invaluable to the cause, but it brings out the worst in people", he hisses in my ear. I stand there, stern and tough. He puts his hand on my waist and shoves me into the door, out of his way. 

The noises from the pyxies come about on the second night. I leave the room and head down to the small study that was a refugee library. Children's drawings still hang on the wall next to the heavy door. He seats there, on a leather sofa with his back turned to the door, and does not bother himself looking over when the door screech. I walk up to the bookshelf, pick out one that contains hexes useful in combat and sit in an armchair around the corner. An hour of dead, stubborn silence passes before I dare to look at him. He looks exhausted but keeps writing something down. "Would you like a glass of water?", I ask and his eyes shoot up to me. His glare is somewhat hateful but too tired to put up a fight. He nods and I go fetch him a water bottle from the kitchen. When I am back, he is asleep on that uncomfortable leather couch. I take the blanket that I had brought for myself and wrap it around him. He twitches when I touch him, and grabs my wrist in a painful hold. I manage to free myself out of his grip and settle into my chair. In the morning a noticed that my wrist had bruised up. I blackout for an hour or two when the dawn comes about and when I regain consciousness, the blanket is folded neatly on the sofa and Draco has left the room.

The next time we meet is in the kitchens, late in the evening but not late enough to call it night, this weird moment in-between two worlds. I came to get some water, he was there for a reason I would never find out. "Do you never sleep, Granger?" he asked as I appeared in his view. "Nice to see you too, Malfoy", I replied as I went straight to the stash of bottles and did not bother exchanging the usual hateful stares. As I bend down, I feel a pull on my hair, that brings me to my toes. With his knee, he locks me against the wall, facing it and he presses me in a way that doesn't allow me to breathe. "Do you think this is funny, Warlock Granger?", he shouts but knows that I will not answer. "Stop following me. I know what you did to me, I know about the curse. You don't get to walk around and enjoy the views, but let me assure you it worked...It! Fucking! Worked!", he yanks me away from the wall and slams my body against the hard stone surface as he shouts the last words, a moan escapes my mouth as he shoves me the last time. "Pain? You know next to nothing about pain! You entitled brat in your comfortable lab coat! I haven't slept for years. I had my throat slashed and bled out in the desert. I had enemies piss in my bleeding wound. I had bullets go through my liver and shards of metal stuck in my forehead. I have seen two-thirds of my platoon explode... my men, my friends, my responsibility..." his grip loosens, he falls to the floor. I think he'll cry, but as his eyes level with my stare I realise he could not cry anymore and I tear up. " I saw amputations and men throwing themselves over grenades to protect their friends. I saw civil children and women mistaking me for one of their own, begging me for food, while all I came to do is shoot them between their hopeful eyes. I shot an infant in an abandoned house. He was crying and pulling the rotting breast of his mother for milk. I don't know how he survived for as long as he did. And when the time came and my deployment was over, I left the people I befriended and didn't even think twice about it. The pills I take...I take only because the chant, that god-forsaken chant of my platoon doesn't ever leave my head. I am a traitor, a wreck of a wicked person, but at least I am not you." I leave the room without a water bottle. I rush to the shower rooms where I cough out blood. I don't see him until two days after. I catch a brief glimpse of him writing meticulously in his notebook, in the evening at the kitchens. I walk away before I agitate him. The next morning, three bottles of water await by my door.

Between 9:30 and 10:30 the scarce women can take showers and after that the shower room belongs to all the men. When I go to shower it is 10:15 and as I brush my teeth, I see his reflection in the mirror behind me. I try to cover the bruises on my collarbones, but he seems to notice them. He takes the notebook out of his pocket and leaves it next to my basin. "Write down everything I ever did to you, Warlock Granger", he says as he unbuttons his shirt. I ask him why and he tells me simply that it's his command. "Read it if you must", he says as he folds the shirt neatly. I take the notebook to my room, where the chanting of toy soldiers buzzes. In the notebook, there are names, places, dates, approximate hours and short descriptions on the left pages and names, places, dates, approximate hours and atonements on the right pages. I flip through the journal and random entries catch my eye. 

Hogwarts. 1998. Lead the Death Eaters inside the Hogwarts Castle | Recouped the Hogwarts Castle. Dateless for now.  
Afghanistan. Nameless Infant. 7th March 2001. Shot. | New Orleans. 30th June 2001. Assisted in civilian baby delivery, resuscitated the newborn. The child is alive.  
Military Base in Maine. August 2000. Killed and ate a rabbit in survival training | Adopted a dog from a local shelter. Dateless.  
Massachusetts. 24th October 2001. Prevented Hermione Granger from getting water | Massachusetts. 25th October 2001. Brought water to the door of Hermione Granger.  
Pulled Hermione Granger by her hair | Right side empty.  
Held Hermione Granger breathless against a wall | Right side empty  
Bruised Hermione Granger (collar bones) | Right side empty.

I take a pen and write down hesitantly.

Hogwarts. 1990s. Called Hermione Granger a mudblood. |  
Hogwarts. 1990s. Was mean to Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. |

These are my only two entries. I leave the right sides for him. I study his journal for the rest of the night. He had atoned or made plans to atone for almost everything he wrote down. When I realised that all of this is because of me cursing him, I feel indignant. I pull out a notebook of my own. I write down the words of Damballah and Papa Legba, give the man what you took from the boy.

Massachusetts. 1st June 1998. Cursed Draco Malfoy | I leave the right side empty. I still have no idea how to repent.


	7. Chapter 7

The last night we spend at the base I give him my notebook. Now with the left pages all covered in ink and the right pages painfully empty for the most part. I tell him "Write down everything bad that happened to you because of me" and think about leaving but can't seem to get my legs to move. We are in the study again and he is sitting in the same spot he last took up. He looks at me bewildered. "You cursed me once", he says, "you don't need to atone for one curse". I tell him that I do. I tell him that the curse backfired. I tell him about the soldiers and the chant that I suspect is the one he knows all too well. I tell him about the Mardi Gras night and the Lwa. I tell him that if he has a time turner right here and right now, I will go back and kill myself before I ever even think of the curse. He tells me that he thought of cursing me as a revenge, but never went through with it. He tells me that the toy soldiers are nowhere near the reality he experienced, but recognises the chant. He says that even a fraction of his feelings must have messed me up for good. He listens. He is understanding. He is better than I am, I never listen. The hours pass as we talk, not at each others throats and surprisingly calm.

I ask him about redemption. I ask him how did he figure it out. "I didn't think it could break the curse. I just did it, cause it kept me busy at the sleepless nights", he tells me.  
As he tells me that, I begin to feel shame. I needed the advice of Lwa and a motif to do the right things and out of all people, Draco Malfoy was more selfless than I was. "The war gets really brings out the worst in people", he says as he hands me back the notes, his injuries. "If you work with me on my atonement", he speaks, "I am willing to let you atone. It goes against my instinct, but I don't think either of us will ever break the curse if we isolate ourselves". I agree with him. "I just can't seem to place what exactly did I take from you...besides your health and sanity. And I don't know how to restore them." He tells me that we should start from the little things. "Hermione Granger", he says, "you are a muggle-born, an exceptional one. When I called you a Mudblood I was too young to know the weight of the word and I will never use it again." I forgave him, I tell him these words to make my forgiveness official. I reach for his face and caress his cheek. "Is this for the punch on Hogwarts ground?", he asks. I nod and smile wryly. He closes his eyes and presses his face into my hand. He moves to kiss my wrist and I ask him how does he know he had given me a bruise. He isn't sure. "My mother used to kiss my bruises when I was a child and for some reason, she convinced me it helped". "It helps" I tell him "my mother did the same". He leans closer and awaits my protests, but as they do not come, he kisses my collar bones. As he raises hi head back up, I move to kiss him. It's a kiss full of sorrow, forgiveness, hope and understanding. It's not a kiss of pity. It's not a kiss to atone. It's a sincere kiss that makes tears fall down my cheeks and as I pull away. I tell him I didn't do it for my atonement and he tells me that he doesn't care. He pulls me into his embrace and I think I know what I took away from the boy. I took away his humanity and only by loving him purely and deeply will I ever be able to find my peace. We kiss the night away and as the morning comes we are ready for the battle. We lose our lives in combat after hours of restless battle. We look at our lifeless bodies and I wonder if Harry saw the same. We sit on the hill, cuddled and watching as our friends become triumphant. The sun is halfway down the horizon when Neville Longbottom beheads Nagini, the last of the Horcruxes. 

Papa Legba sits beside us and we all observe what is our last sunset. 

"You were always toy soldiers and toy soldiers never win.", he tells us.   
"I am always very honoured to take young lovers with me, where no gods, no wars and no limits exist to keep them apart".


End file.
